


Semper Fidelis

by Madame (McKay)



Series: The Monkees Soap Opera [15]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 05:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10915692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/Madame
Summary: After discovering a horrible secret, Isabel must make some important decisions about her marriage.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1999.

Isabel hummed softly to herself as she hurried across the lobby, her over-night bag banging against her hip with every step. It was a gorgeous sight--high domed ceiling set with pale pastel stained glass, two gold and crystal chandeliers, ornate Victorian reproduction furniture scattered everywhere—but she ignored the beauty, her mind on only one thing. A spur-of-the-moment impulse had brought her here; she'd finished her latest manuscript ahead of schedule, and she wanted to celebrate.

There was a short line at the front desk, and she bounced on her heels as she waited, excitement making her as impatient as a two-year-old. When she finally reached the head of the line, she leaned her elbows on the counter and smiled politely at the desk clerk who was waiting to assist her. 

"Hi, could you please tell me where I can find Mike Nesmith?" she asked, trying to sound much more calm and collected than she felt.

The young woman frowned slightly and shook her head. "I'm sorry, ma'am--I can't give out that kind of information about our guests."

"You don't understand--" she began, but she was interrupted by her name being yelled at top volume from somewhere on the other side of the lobby, the sound reverberating enough to get _everyone's_ attention and make all heads turn.

Isabel whirled around and spotted a familiar face by the elevators, and she grinned and waved enthusiastically.

"Micky!" she called. "Come help me--I'm trying to breach security!"

He dashed across the lobby and grabbed her around the waist when he reached her, swinging her around, heedless of the other patrons who had to avoid flying feet. She laughed and hugged him tight; it had been weeks since she'd seen him--since she'd seen _any_ of them.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dolenz," stammered the now-flustered desk clerk who apparently had realized she wasn't dealing with a mere groupie. "She was asking to see Mr. Nesmith."

"It's okay. " Micky turned a charming smile on the young woman. "This is Isabel _Nesmith_ \--his wife."

"Oh!" The poor girl's cheeks burned red, and she scrambled to get the information Isabel had requested. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Nesmith--let me just get you a key--is Mr. Nesmith expecting you?"

Isabel exchanged impish grins with Micky. "No, this is going to be a surprise."

The clerk slipped a key card across the marble topped desk, and Isabel pocketed with a soft word of thanks, then she slipped her arm around Micky's waist.

"Do you know where I'm going?" she asked, arching one eyebrow at him.

"Sure," he replied blithely. "His suite's across the hall from mine. C'mon." He draped his arm across her shoulders and guided her back to the elevators.

"I'm not keeping you from anything, am I?"

"Nah--I was just going to meet Peter for dinner. He won't care if I'm a few minutes late, especially when I tell him why."

By sheer luck, they had the elevator to themselves, and once the doors closed on them, Micky turned to her with an unusually somber expression. "I'm really glad you're here, Izzy," he told her. "Mike's been kind of moody lately."

"More than usual?" she teased, but they both knew she had no grounds to throw stones at that particular glass house. 

"Yeah," he replied, his voice troubled. "More than usual. He's been acting strange the whole tour, but maybe having you around will help snap him out of it." He paused, then added. "I _hope_ so, anyway. Otherwise, Davy's gonna kill him."

"Well, I'll see what I can find out," Isabel smiled. After thirty years together, she knew how to drag out whatever he was bottling up inside him--and vice versa. They both had a tendency to brood rather than talk about things, which was why both of them also tended to be relentless when they suspected the other was stewing about something.

"So how's the tour going?" she asked, trying to lighten the mood a little.

"Great!" he responded vehemently. "We've had sell-out crowds at every stop, and you wouldn't _believe_ the response we get--people singing along, throwing pitas at Peter every time Davy says something to him--"

Micky chattered about all the sights, and Isabel smiled, content as she listened to his stories; he kept his arm around her as they exited the elevator and strolled down the hall, and she needed his support a couple of times when he made her laugh so hard she had to stop walking and just lean on him for a minute until she regained her composure.

"Oh--" Micky broke off mid-sentence and pointed at a door on the left. "Here it is."

She fumbled in her pocket for the key the desk clerk had given her, checking to make sure she had it turned the right way around. 

"Do you know if he's there?" she asked. If she had a chance to prepare before he returned...

"Probably," Micky shrugged. "He usually hangs out in his room before we have to go to the gig."

Ah, well--she would have to make do with the look on his face when she walked in the door.

Grinning with anticipation of a joyful--among other things--reunion, she slid the card in the slot, turned the handle, and pushed the door open to reveal a dark sitting room. The curtains were drawn, and none of the lamps were on almost as if he weren't there after all.

A slight frown creased her brow as she stepped inside, peering around in the dark for any sign of life. Micky followed her in but lingered near the door while she strode purposefully into the suite's large sitting room.

No one.

"Huh," she muttered, standing in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. This was strange...

And then she heard the noise.

A specific kind of noise--one she hadn't expected to hear outside of her own bedroom--the sound of a woman experiencing pleasure at the hands of her lover.

Isabel stood perfectly still, her heart suddenly strangled with ice, her stomach plummeting as she turned her head in the direction of the bedroom door.

It was closed.

"Izzy--?" Micky called softly, and she waved him silent, casting a warning look over her shoulder as she padded quietly to the bedroom. She reached for the doorknob, her hand poised to turn it, and she noticed her fingers were trembling. She felt the sudden, inexplicable urge to flee--if she didn't go in there, if she didn't _see_ , then she would never _know_...

Steeling herself, she grasped the knob firmly and turned it, flinging the door open--

Her mind shut down then, processing the scene before her eyes in fragments. A young woman's naked back. Her greedy mouth fastened on his. His hand on her breast.

And to Isabel's horror, she felt her own body quicken in response because she knew oh so well exactly what that felt like after so many years and so many hours in their bed but that was _her_ knowledge no one else had a right to it...

"What the hell are you doing here?"

His furious question jolted her out of her stunned silence, and she drew herself up to her full height, her dark brown eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. Her lips curled into a contemptuous sneer as she watched the blonde girl writhe in humiliation and try to hide under the sheets. 

"You bastard."

The words were low, but they carried--clipped and cold--all the way across the room.

"Iz, what--?" Near the door, Micky took a hesitant step forward, but she whirled around and stormed out, shoving her way past him before he could go anywhere near the bedroom.

"Izzy! Isabel!" he called, sprinting down the hall, trying to catch up with her, but for a tiny woman with short legs, she was making her escape in good time. "What happened?"

She stopped dead in her tracks then and spun to face him, her features contorted with rage. 

"Did you know about this?" she demanded, practically spitting the words out, her eyes flashing with a deep wrath such as he had never seen before, especially not from _her_.

"Know about _what_?" he asked, bewildered. He had a horrible suspicion he _knew_ what, but he didn't want to assume anything just yet.

"About _him_ ," she countered, jabbing an accusatory finger at the suite door in place of mentioning Mike's name. "And that--that slut!"

Micky gaped at her, sickened and astonished by her words. He knew Mike had been troubled, but he never would have guessed he was capable of sinking to such a low...

"Would I have brought you to his room if I had?" he replied, finding his tongue again at last. 

She glared at him for a moment, then a shadow crossed her face, and she dropped her gaze to the floor as she raised a shaking hand to cover her eyes.

"You're right," she said quietly. "I'm sorry." She glanced up at him, then back down the hall. "Get me out of here, Micky," she pleaded softly, her eyes wide and vulnerable. "Now."

"Sure, babe." He put his arm around her again, a protective gesture this time, and guided her back to the elevator.

They both expected to hear the suite door open, to hear an outraged shout, to hear Isabel being called back.

But they reached the elevator, waited for it to arrive, stepped in, and even as the doors slid shut, there was no sound from the other end of the hall.

~*~*~ 

Three days later, Isabel sat on the balcony of her beach house, staring out at the ocean, the portable phone--which had steadfastly refused to ring--tossed on the table in front of her. She tucked her knees under her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs, her gaze never leaving the crashing waves below, but she wasn't seeing them; all she could see was her husband--the man whom she had loved and trusted above all others--and that woman. When she closed her eyes, they were there; when she opened her eyes again, they were still there. 

She hadn't been able to face staying at their home in New Mexico; everywhere she looked, she saw scenes from the past that brought to her mind unbidden recollections of happier times. 

Instead, she had packed her bags and fled here. The beach had always been a safe haven for her, and she needed a cocoon. This was her house in her name, and she had primarily used it as a place to work in private when he was touring or out-of-town on business, thus it was not a house haunted by memories. Micky knew she was there; no one else did at the moment--she hadn't been ready to tell anyone that she had left her husband and was contemplating divorce--but Micky had instructions to tell _him_ if he asked.

Apparently he had not.

But there _was_ one person who needed to be told...

With a prolonged sigh, she picked up the phone and punched in the numbers from memory, her fingers a little unsteady. It rang once--twice--then a cheerful male voice answered, "Hello?"

"Hi, Rob--it's me," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.

"Oh, hey, Mom--" His voice was a youthful version of his father's, and she had to swallow hard to keep back the tears clogging her throat; she hadn't yet shed a tear over that man, and she wasn't about to begin now. He wasn't worth it.

"How's the tour going? Was Dad surprised to see you?" Rob overflowed with questions, as she knew he would, but it didn't make them any easier to hear.

"Yes, he was surprised," she answered with total honesty.

"How's it going? I heard they've got good crowds--"

"Honey, I really wouldn't know," she interrupted, wanting to spill the news before she lost her nerve entirely. "I'm not with them. I'm at the beach house."

Rob's voice mirrored his confusion as he asked, "Why?"

"Look--Rob--there's no easy way to say this--" She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, resentful that she had to give this kind of sordid news to her only child-- _their_ only child. "I caught your father in bed with another woman, and I've left him. That's why I called--to let you know where I'll be if you need me."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and when Rob spoke again, his voice was quiet and filled with sympathy.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "D'you want me to come--"

"No, that's okay," she answered hastily. "You've got exams in a couple of weeks, and I really need to be alone for a while. There's nothing you could do anyway."

"Are you sure? I don't know if it's a good idea for you to be by yourself right now," he replied dubiously. "I know how you are--"

"Thanks for the concern, mother, but I'll be fine," she retorted, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice. She still wasn't sure how the two of them had produced a gregarious son to whom the concept of hiding emotion of any sort was completely foreign. 

"What has Dad said about it? Is he having an affair? Does he want to _marry_ this person?"

"I don't know," she replied softly. "I haven't heard from him since it happened. I don't know what he wants or why he did it--nothing."

"Does he know where you are?" Rob asked, the double dose of Evans/Nesmith pragmatism he'd inherited asserting itself.

"Uncle Micky knows," she said. "Which means he could find out if he wanted to. I guess finishing the tour is more important," she added, unable to keep the bitterness out of her tone.

"Mom, I'm so sorry..."

"Me, too, hon--" She choked then, and knew she had to get off the phone before she gave into the break-down she had been fighting tooth-and-nail. "Look, I really need to go. I'll call you soon, okay?"

"Okay--but if you need anything--"

"I'm fine--"

"Yeah, right," he scoffed. "You've left Dad because he's cheating on you, and you're fine. Mom, for once will you just quit putting up shields? You don't have to--"

"Yes, I do!" she snapped. "I will _not_ be humiliated any more than I already have been, and I will _not_ humiliate myself by turning into some weeping, hysterical emotional shipwreck over this!"

There was another dead silence on the line, and she covered her face with one hand, regretting her outburst.

"I'm sorry," she said at last. "I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

"I understand," he replied quietly. "But you know it's not healthy. If you don't want to talk to _me_ about it, then call Uncle Micky or Uncle Peter--he's a great listener--"

"Maybe I will, but not now," she insisted. "I'm still trying to figure out what I'm going to do. Once I get that straight in my own head, I may be ready to talk about it, but not until then."

"Okay, okay--" She heard the reluctant concession in his voice, and she smiled, picturing the little crease between his eyebrows she knew was forming as it always did when he was annoyed. "But my offer still stands."

"I know," she replied. "Talk to you soon--"

"Love you, Mom."

"Love you too, Rob. Bye"

And then he hung up, and she did as well, returning the phone to the table where it had formerly lay, and still it didn't ring.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hello?" Isabel sounded almost bored when she answered the phone. She had given up hope that he would call, would offer any kind of explanation that she might be able to accept and forgive. She had stopped carrying the phone into the bathroom with her, stopped lunging for it the moment it made the slightest noise. Now she'd moved into apathy, and even if it _was_ him, she didn't much care. But she didn't think it would be.

"Are you okay?"

And I would be right, she thought with only a vestige of bitterness as she recognized Peter's voice.

"I would've called sooner, but I only just found out what was going on," he explained apologetically. "This _would_ be the one time Micky decided to keep his big mouth shut about something."

Isabel chuckled at that despite her perpetual foul mood; after so many days of self-imposed solitude, it was good to hear a friendly voice.

"It's okay," she assured him. "I asked Micky not to say anything because if _he_ was going to do anything, I wanted him to do it on his own, not because you guys were ganging up on him."

"Would we do _that_ ?" Peter asked, sounding mock-wounded.

"Yes," she retorted dryly. "You would."

Peter's warm laughter flowed into her ear, and it felt like a soothing balm to her soul. 

"Well, he's about to do something," Peter continued. "I don't know _what_ , but he left the tour today--said he might not be back. Davy and I were about to hit the ceiling because he wouldn't say why, so Micky finally told us what was going on."

"He--he left?" Isabel asked faintly, a sick knot of sheer nerves forming in her stomach. All this time without a word, and now finally she was about to face the confrontation she had waiting for. Part of her was glad to finally get it over with; depending on what he said and how he acted, she would be able to make her own decisions about the future. But the _other_ part was terrified that she would take one look at him and lose it completely, demeaning herself in the process.

"Yes," Peter's voice was quiet and serious. "I imagine you'll be hearing from him pretty soon."

"Took him long enough," she replied acidly. "I suppose this ought to tell me how high on his priority list our marriage actually is."

"Isabel, that's not entirely fair--"

"Don't defend him!" she shouted into the phone, unable to stem the rising tide of anger. "There's no excuse for the way he's handled this!"

"We don't know all the facts--" he insisted, and Isabel sighed, remembering whom she was talking to: Peter the Peacemaker.

"Don't worry," she told him wearily. "I'm going to listen to whatever he has to say."

"And then?"

Isabel was silent for a moment, and then she replied softly, "I have no idea."

~*~*~ 

She considered leaving.

Suddenly the silent phone that she had so recently been praying would ring filled her with apprehension, and she jumped, startled at the sound of any passing car. She didn't know how he would try to contact her, and despite her complaints that he hadn't, she almost wished he wouldn't now.

Irrational, she thought with a bemused shake of her head. Very, very irrational. But having to talk about what happened with him would only confirm that it was real, that it _did_ happen, and no matter what he said, she wasn't sure she could ever forgive him for it. There was absolutely no reason he could give that would justify his actions, and she couldn't begin understand what had led him to do it.

The dreaded summons came just after midnight in the form of heavy pounding on the front door; he'd apparently decided the doorbell might be too easily ignored, and she silently cursed the fact that he knew her too well.

She pulled on a thick terry-cloth robe over her nightgown, clutching it tightly closed at her neck as she padded down the hall to answer the door; the last thing she wanted him to think was that she was being deliberately provocative-- _that_ was the furthest thing from her mind!

Pausing for a moment, she schooled her features into a neutral mask, then unlocked the door and opened it slowly, not wanting to appear overly anxious.

And there he stood, looking weary and rumpled, and suddenly it was all she could do not to throw herself in his arms and assure him that they could work things out. But the first words out of his mouth when they reached the living room dispelled _that_ illusion quickly enough.

"Why did you just show up like that?" he demanded. "Why didn't you let me know you were comin'?"

"Why should I have to?" she countered, folding her arms and bracing herself for war. If he was launching an attack rather than beginning with more conciliatory terms, she already knew the whole conversation was doomed. "I'm your wife. That should give me the right to surprise you when I please without worrying about what I'm going to walk in on."

He had the grace to redden at that, but his expression was still dark and forbidding. 

"Look, Isabel, you can't deny there've been problems lately--"

"Yes, I can!" she snapped, glaring at him in sheer disbelief that he would take that approach. " _I've_ been perfectly _fine_ , thank you! Any problems in our marriage come from _you_."

"So this is all _my_ fault--"

" _You_ were the one in bed with a groupie young enough to be your daughter, not me," she retorted acidly. "How long has this been going on? Or was it a one-night stand?" she sneered.

"Most of the tour," he admitted. "She's part of the tech crew. We hit it off, and--"

"And you just couldn't resist the temptation," she finished contemptuously.

"Maybe if I'd been happy with _you_ I wouldn't have been tempted in the first place!" he lashed out angrily, and she involuntarily took a step back, one hand flying to her mouth as she felt the blood drain from her face. She stared at him, pale and wide-eyed, stunned into silence. 

"We've both been wrapped up in our own projects--me with the new album and the tour, and you with your book--and we've drifted apart," he continued. "It happens." He shrugged as if it were of little consequence to him, and it was like a dagger in her heart.

"I n-never realized--" she faltered, her brain struggling to process what he was saying, what he was implying. "I didn't know you felt that way--"

"I've needed more than our marriage has been able to give me for a while now," he replied in a gentler tone, but that didn't soften the blow his words dealt her in the slightest. 

"You--you never said--how was I supposed to know--to fix it--"

"I don't think this can be fixed."

"You mean you don't _want_ to," she cried bitterly, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. Her whole body shook with the effort of controlling her anger, of not unleashing the full fury of her wrath on him for so casually tossing aside the life they'd built together. 

"No," he replied simply. "I suppose I don't."

She doubled over as if she'd been struck, collapsing on the couch, her legs incapable of supporting her any longer. Burying her face in both hands, she concentrated on taking deep breaths, letting them out slowly as she fought to make sense of this whole bizarre situation. Where had this come from? And how had she been so blind that she never saw it coming?

"Fine," she said at last, raising her head and staring at him with eyes that were flat and dead. "You want out, you got it. Call your lawyer, get the papers drawn up. I don't want a damn thing except you out of my life."

He stared at her a moment, appearing surprised at her blunt statement.

"I'll be in touch--" he said hesitantly, but she shook her head furiously.

"No, you won't! You contact me through my lawyer. I'm old, I'm boring you, so you want to throw away thirty years together--fine! You're out--all the way out--you are _nothing_ to me!"

"Isabel--" He held out one hand to her as if now he wanted to offer some sort of compromise, but it was too late as far as she was concerned.

"Get _out_!" she shrieked, pointing inexorably towards the door. 

With that, she jumped up and dashed upstairs, slamming her bedroom door shut behind her, not waiting to see him leave. Once she was safe in her private haven, she threw herself on the bed, clutching a pillow to her chest, expecting herself to burst into tears at any moment, but she did not. Her eyes remained dry, and anger curled tighter around her soul, digging in with icy claws. Instead, she lay perfectly still as the hours passed, and the morning found her still awake, still dry-eyed, still suffocated with fury.

~*~*~ 

_This can't be happening..._

Isabel stared down at the sheaf of papers in her shaking hand, looking at the tiny printed words but not seeing them; she didn't have to--she already knew what they said.

She had called her own lawyer the very next day after their--discussion, and even though Sawyer had tried to convince her to wait, she had refused. 

"Isabel, I know you're upset--that's normal under the circumstances--but don't you think you ought to wait a couple of days? Give yourself and him some time to cool off?" he suggested.

"No. Get it done, Sawyer," she ordered, her tone brooking no argument. "I want him served. He wants to be shed of me so badly, I'll be happy to oblige."

Now she held a copy of the fateful document which awaited her signature; once that was done, it would be sent to him--and then it was merely a matter of waiting as the legal process went through its paces.

Carrying it to her writing desk, she sat down and fished a pen out of the Disney glass--a relic of Rob's childhood--she used as a pencil holder; her hand was poised over the line, but she couldn't bring herself to begin writing. 

Not yet.

Her eyes misted over as a flood of memories engulfed her, dragging her unwillingly into the past...

A glance at the phone, and she saw Mike--still young, still dark-haired, still a gangly stork--white-faced, the receiver slipping from his fingers as he turned to them and said in a scarcely audible voice that the record company they would record with for the next ten years before forming their own wanted to produce "Last Train to Clarksville" as a single...

A glance at the door--and she was back at the Pad, watching Micky burst in waving a crumpled copy of _Billboard_ , shouting that "Clarksville" had hit the number one spot. She and Mike had stared at each other, speechless, then he'd let out a holler that could have been heard back in Texas, grabbed her and spun her around until they were both dizzy...

A glance at the ocean, and she remembered him asking her to take a twilight walk on the beach with him; he'd told her that they'd signed a contract that day to cut their first full-length album--and then he'd asked her to marry him...

Other memories crowded in her head--the look on his face when he held Rob for the first time--all walls had crumbled, and a pure affection shone on his features like none she had ever seen before, not even when he looked at _her_. Tears stung her eyes, and her heart swelled at the sight; she'd thought she couldn't love him any more than she already did, but she'd been wrong...

The surprise celebration party he'd thrown for her when her first book hit the shelves; he'd pretended he'd forgotten all about the big event, and she'd been sulking as they drove to Santa Fe, ostensibly because Davy was in town for the night and they were to have dinner with him. When he guided her into a private dining room filled to overflowing with their friends and adopted family, she hadn't known whether to kiss him or kill him...

The far more intimate celebration of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary; he'd taken her island-hopping in the Bahamas for two weeks, and they had deliberately left all their work at home. She'd agreed not to take _her_ lap top computer if he agreed not to take _his_ \--although for the first three days they both had to admit suffering e-mail withdrawal symptoms. She could remember thinking how lucky they were to have made it so far, to have survived all the ups and downs with their relationship intact, to still love each other after all that time. She thought they would be together until the end, that nothing save death would ever-- _could_ ever--part them...

But she'd been wrong then too. 

That was the past, she reminded herself firmly, gripping the pen tighter. All that was over and done with, and only the memories remained. Now she had to move on, to start over.

And she had no clue how to begin. 

He had been an integral part of her life for thirty years; they'd been married for twenty-six of those years with a twenty-one-year-old son as the physical representation and product of their love--or so she thought. Had she really been so naive, so blind? Had she been fooling herself all this time? Had their relationship not been as solid, as fulfilling as she thought?

Shaking her head to clear it, she furrowed her brow in concentration as she pressed the tip of the pen to the paper and--with more pressure than necessary--affixed her signature to the end of her marriage.

~*~*~ 

"I'm glad you decided to come," Peter said--again--as he ushered her onto the expanded deck of the 1334 Beechwood house. 

He had purchased it on a whim years and years ago, and it had sat deteriorating until he'd turned it into a long term project after his second divorce. Renovating it was good therapy, he said at the time, and maybe it would keep him from rebounding into anyone. 

That had been five years ago, and the place was hardly recognizable, even to those who had once lived there. He had installed double French doors on the back wall and widened the old balcony so it could fit more than a single table and a couple of chairs. Now there was enough room for a large table plus chairs, a chaise and a small grill.

"Rob bullied me into it," she replied mildly, pausing before she went outside to glance once more around the room. "I can't believe what you've done with this place..."

The decor was now a comfortable hodge-podge of typical white wicker beach house furniture combined with delicate light wood antique pieces, all of which looked informal and inviting--the tacky bachelor furniture of their youth had long since gone--and he had closed off the kitchen area, expanding it into an actual room complete with a wall and a swinging door leading to the living room.

"It doesn't bother you being here, does it?" he asked, frowning a little with concern.

"No..." She let her gaze linger over the living room, taking in the alterations, trying to find remnants of the past, but they were well hidden. "The only thing that really looks the same is that," she replied, indicating the black wrought iron tornado staircase. "I can still see Micky sliding down that thing, but otherwise, it's totally different."

"Yeah," Peter smiled fondly at the stairs. "I couldn't bring myself to get rid of it."

"I don't blame you." She smiled slightly, then turned away, her mind returning to his original question concerning if being in this house again bothered her. "Of course, it helps that we never--" She cut herself off abruptly as she thought about what she had almost said aloud, her cheeks flushing pink.

Peter raised one eyebrow at her and grinned mischievously as if he'd read her mind. "Never _what_?" he pressed, barely keeping the laughter from his voice.

She shot him an irritated glare, but he was unrepentant. "We never actually made love in this house," she blurted, not bothering to hide her annoyance. "If we had, I don't think I could have come no matter how many changes you'd made. _My_ house, yes--lots of times, but never here."

"You must be _joking_ ," he replied, almost completely deadpan, but those dimples betrayed him.

"Nope," she shook her head, finally cracking a smile herself as she conceded to the humor of the conversation. "When did we ever have the _chance_? You guys were always around. There was no such thing as privacy in this house."

"You could've put a 'do not disturb' sign on the door--"

"With three sets of ears picking up every squeak of the springs?" she replied, giving him an incredulous look. "No, thank you!"

He laughed, and the infectious sound coaxed a chuckle from her as well. To her surprise, he reached out and cupped her cheek in one hand, smiling down at her affectionately.

"That's good to see," he told her, his voice soft and serious. "I was afraid you'd forgotten how."

"Not quite," she replied, glancing up and meeting his eyes--and for a long moment, she couldn't look away. 

She couldn't tell how long they stood there, gazing at each other as if they had never seen each other before--or they were truly seeing each other for the first time--as a moment spun out between them with the crystalline fragility all such moments have. An odd look crossed Peter's face, and he dropped his hand to his side, retreating a couple of steps; Isabel simply stared at him, silently wondering what in the world had just happened.

"Um--you want some coffee?" he asked abruptly.

She blinked, shaken out of her reverie. "I thought you didn't drink coffee," she said, frowning a little. Was her memory beginning to go along with everything else?

"I don't," he replied. "But Micky gets upset if I don't keep some around for when he visits. I've got some tea as well--chamomile, green tea, peppermint--"

"Peppermint sounds good."

"I'll go make it," he replied--was that relief in his voice?--as he hurried into the kitchen, leaving Isabel to explore on her own.

She wandered over to the elaborate stereo system he'd set up where the jukebox had once stood; the top was cluttered with compact discs both in and out of jewel cases, sheet music and cassettes. One in particular caught her eye, and she picked it up, reading the careless scrawl on side A: "Dad--Thee Ex Deux gig. Hope you like."

Now she really did feel old! 

Their _kids_ were already performing, brought together by a natural love of music obviously inherited from at least one of their respective parents. None of their fathers had encouraged them to learn to play an instrument or sing; on the contrary, they had all been scrupulous about letting the children decide for themselves what they wanted to do with their lives. But that didn't change the fact that all four of them--including her own husband--had just about broken down into tears of pride and joy when five of their eight collective offspring had gathered the families together to announce that they were forming a band.

Thus was The Next Evolution born, consisting of Rob on keyboards and vocals, having inherited his father's stylistic flexibility; Peter's son Ian on drums and his daughter Isabeau on lead guitar and occasionally vocals; Davy's daughter Charlotte also played guitar, and she was the one who played the incidental instruments as well, including tamborine and maracas--"just to carry on the family tradition," she always said with a wicked grin; and Micky's son George on bass and vocals, having inherited his father's ability to emote like no one's business. Rob and Isabeau were the primary songwriters, but the others contributed as well. 

The fathers of course had remained steadfast in their determination not to help the budding group; the young musicians wanted to make it based on their own abilities, not because of whom their fathers were, and although each parent suffered in silent agony at having to watch their children struggle, they let the group sink or swim as it would.

So far, they were swimming. Although they hadn't yet landed a record deal, their popularity was growing in the LA club scene, and their schedule was booked solid. 

Despite the fact that she constantly pestered him, Rob was notoriously slack about remembering to send her tapes of any of their performances, so it was probably safe to assume she hadn't heard this one. She flipped on the tape player and popped the cassette in, smiling a little in anticipation as she waited for the music to begin.

Rob was up first with a song she hadn't ever heard before; she checked the song index on the cassette jacket for the title and saw listed there, "New Mexico Suite"--Robert Evan Nesmith. She hadn't even known he had written it, which was unusual because he usually faxed them--her--copies of his songs as soon as he'd finished.

His voice was slightly distorted by the amateur quality of the tape, but it still sounded enough like his father's to make her shiver as he crooned the words to the mournful ballad:

"You say you don't know You say you don't care You say you'll come with me Everywhere But I can tell that You don't know where it's at Cause there's no love-light in your eyes

"You're running away Well I'm running too And though I may want to Run away with you I can see this will lead To an aching empty need Under lonely New Mexico skies.

"So my love farewell I'm leaving you behind Right now it may seem That I'm being unkind But time will prove it's true It's the best for me and you I'd rather hurt than live these awful lies." **

She scowled, tamping down the rising wave of depression that threatened to sweep over her; if he'd written that in the last five or six months, no _wonder_ he hadn't shown it to her! It was probably his way of dealing with the situation, venting his emotions through music, and he was tactful and sensitive enough not to want to add to her melancholy, so he'd kept it from her. 

Brat, she thought fondly. Handling _me_ with kid gloves when he's probably going through some major disillusionment of his own. 

Lost in thought, she barely heard the next two songs, but the third one...

The Next Evolution launched into a cover of the Four Seasons' "Ronnie" with Isabeau singing leads this time, and Isabel enjoyed it for about a minute and a half.

But after she started paying attention to the words again, she felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Isabeau had changed the name, probably just to annoy Rob, and now the lyrics resonated in Isabel's soul: 

"Aaaah...I never cheated...Aaaaa...I'll just repeat it...Robbie...Robbie, Robbie, I'll never go...Robbie...Robbie, Robbie, I'll go on living and keep on forgiving because...You were my first love..."

With a fresh burst of anger, she switched the cassette player off and whirled away from it, her hands clenched into shaking fists. 

"Are you okay?" Peter was careful to speak softly, but he frightened her nonetheless, and she jumped, pressing one hand to her chest as she mock-glared at him, trying to shake off her rising temper.

"You shouldn't sneak up on old ladies," she admonished. "You might've given me a heart attack."

He rolled his eyes and gave her an "oh, _please_ " look as he carried their steaming cups of tea out onto the deck. She followed him out, heading to the rail rather than to one of the chairs, leaning on her elbows as she stared out over the ocean.

"Have you heard from him?" Peter asked, moving to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her and sliding her peppermint tea in front of her; the fragrant mint wafted up to her nose, and she breathed in deeply, letting the pungent aroma brace her. She noted with some amusement that he'd inadvertantly adopted her habit of not referring to Mike by name.

"He's called a couple of times..." she admitted, "a couple" translating into upwards of about five or six times a week for about the past two months.

"And?"

"I hung up on him."

And kept the answering machine on, screening all calls and automatically skipping the messages from him.

She also didn't mention the letters she'd thrown away unopened, the e-mail she'd deleted without reading; he'd done everything except visit the house again, probably because he didn't put it past her to call the police and have him arrested for trespassing, which, she admitted wryly, was not out of the realm of the possible.

"When are you going to let yourself grieve, Isabel?" Peter asked quietly. "It's been six months, and you're still holding everything in. Why?"

"Why not?" she replied flippantly. "What's there to grieve _for_? Apparently everything I thought about our marriage was a lie. I have to wonder now if he _ever_ loved me, or if I was just deluding myself all those years--"

"Don't say that!" Peter exclaimed, grabbing her shoulders and giving her a little shake. "You know that's not true!"

"No, I don't!" she retorted. "I never saw this coming, Peter-- _never_. If I was so blind about something as--as big and important as this, how can I be sure that any assumption I ever made about us, about his feelings for me was true?"

"Then we were _all_ fooled, because Micky, Davy and I have always known you two had a once-in-a-lifetime thing going. If you want to know the truth, I envy you. I've tried to find that kind of deep, abiding love for myself, and I haven't been able to yet. Now I wonder if I ever will, or if I'm just meant to be alone."

From anyone else, those words would have been self-pitying, but from Peter, they were matter-of-fact, a simple statement of the truth as he saw it.

"It was hardly deep and abiding," she said bitterly. "That was just another lie."

He stared at her helplessly, at a loss for words, not knowing what he could possibly say to help her raw, gaping wounds begin to heal. Finally, he enfolded her in his arms, pulling her close and hugging her tight until he felt her stiff body relax a little and felt her arms hesitantly slip around his waist.

She couldn't remember the last time someone had touched her, hugged her; she'd wrapped herself up in shields so tightly that the few people she had been in contact with hadn't dared try to storm the walls of the fortress. But for the most part, she'd kept herself isolated; Rob had visited the most, and Micky had dropped by several times, but she didn't encourage them, and she didn't encourage anyone to reach out either physically or verbally.

Trust Peter to ignore all her signals and do what he pleased. She wrapped her arms more tightly around him, feeling his warm, solid strength and drawing on it despite herself. She hadn't realized how lonely she'd been, not until this moment...

"It's okay," he whispered against her hair, stroking her back soothingly. "I'm here for you."

"I know," she murmured, realizing the truth of it even as she spoke. "I've always known."

She looked up at him, her dark brown eyes locking with his tawny ones, and suddenly the mood shifted, abruptly changing from comforting to something far more charged, far more dangerous.

"Peter..." 

She released his waist, her gaze never leaving his as she reached up slowly and slipped her arms around his neck, giving him plenty of time to realize what she was doing and pull away if he wanted, but he didn't; indeed, he bent his head lower, meeting her half-way as she raised up on her toes, pulling him closer as she touched her lips to his in an experimental kiss.

It was gentle at first, almost tentative as they negotiated their way through the initial awkwardness. But what began as soft and warm suddenly exploded, and she found herself clinging to him as if she were a drowning woman, lost in the throes of a molten embrace. Their kiss turned hungry--feverish; he captured her head in one hand, the fingers of the other digging into her hip as he angled her closer against his body, erasing any doubt she might have had about his desire for her. She began kissing his neck, nibbling and tasting her way downward as her fingers sought his shirt buttons, and then--

And then he grasped her shoulders and pushed her away to arm's length, staring down at her with a shell-shocked expression.

"What is it--?" she asked, reaching for him again, but he shook his head.

"Isabel--no--we can't--"

She stiffened, drawing herself up indignantly. "Oh, so you're rejecting me, too?" she demanded, fury burning in her eyes. "Peter, can't you see I want you--?"

"With a passion born of anger, not love," he replied, his tone infinitely gentle and kind. "If we slept together now, you'd end up hating yourself and me, and I'd rather not make either of us live with that kind of regret."

She stared up at him, her mouth twisted in a bitter line. "I'm beginning to feel like I made the wrong choice all those years ago. I should've stayed with you all along."

"As much as part of me wants to believe that, I don't," he said, massaging her shoulders as he spoke. "You're in deep pain right now, and that alone tells me that as mad as you are, as betrayed as you feel, you're still very much in love with Mike." 

Isabel lowered her head and stared at the floor, unwilling to admit he might be right. He paused, then placed his finger under her chin and made her look up at him.

"If you weren't, I wouldn't have said no just now," he told her, his expression somber.

"You're just saying that..." She shrugged off the compliment as another attempt to console her.

"Look," he countered, a note of asperity in his voice, "I realize your ego is badly bruised, but you should know me well enough to know that I wouldn't say something like that just to make you feel better. No, you're not young anymore, but neither am I, and neither is Mike. But you are still a beautiful, desirable woman, and he's a fool if he's lost sight of that."

She smiled at him then, a genuine smile if a bit tremulous. "Thanks...Oh, Peter--" She wrapped her arms around his neck again, hugging him tight. "I don't think I realized just how much I love you until now."

He smiled back, flashing those lethal dimples at her, then cupped her cheeks in his hands and kissed her again, a slow, thorough kiss filled with so much pure, sweet affection that it brought tears to her eyes.

"I love you, too," he said simply when he'd released her again. "And so do Micky and Davy. You should have realized by now that we're not taking sides. We're going to support both you and Mike through this, so if you ever need anything, all you have to do is call any one of us day or night. We'll be there."

"Thanks," she whispered, her voice clogged with unshed tears. "You may regret that offer when I call at 2:00 AM needing a shoulder to cry on."

"Nope," he shook his head firmly. "I'll just make sure I bring a towel. Now," he said, wagging an admonishing finger at her. "I want you to go home, look in the mirror and say, 'Mike Nesmith is a complete idiot' one hundred times, then call me and tell me how you're doing. Okay?"

"Okay," she managed a slight chuckle at that. "I think I can handle that."

"Good." He slipped his arm around her shoulders as he guided her to the door, and she relaxed against him, basking in the radiance of his smile. 

"I owe you one," she said as she opened the door and stepped outside.

"No, you don't." He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his legs at the ankle as he watched her make her way back to her car. "This is about friendship, not debt."

She turned to look at him, hands in her hips. "Jeez, Tork--how do you manage to spout that stuff and keep a straight face?"

He smiled, glad to hear some of her old caustic nature reasserting itself; that meant she was starting to feel better, maybe even starting to heal a little.

"Years of practice," he called back, and to his immense satisfaction, she was laughing as she hopped in her car and drove away. 


	3. Chapter 3

"Sawyer, _what_ is the hold-up?" Isabel demanded curtly. She had been badgering her lawyer for weeks to hurry things along as much as he could, but he kept offering excuses and finding ways to put her off until she was beginning to suspect him of deliberately stalling. "I want this settled--"

"Yes, I know--you've made that perfectly clear," he retorted acerbically, and she bit back the caustic reply that automatically rose to her lips. It was becoming too easy for her to lose her temper these days, and she didn't want to snipe at an innocent target. "But it's not my fault."

"Then whose fault is it?" 

"Mike's." 

The brief answer reverberated through her, sending chills all along her nerve endings, making her shiver. She hadn't expected that; she had assumed he was anxious to make the break and put their marriage behind him so he could move on with the little home-wrecker.

"He won't sign the papers," Sawyer continued. "In fact, he mailed his copy back to me--in pieces."

"What?!" she gasped, dropping heavily into the nearest chair, feeling unaccountably shaky. 

To say she was stunned by this news flash was an understatement at best. Never would she have guessed he would react that way--he'd said he wanted out! He'd said he didn't want to try to fix the relationship! He said--

"He's been trying to get in touch with you, Isabel," Sawyer added. "He even asked me to relay messages since you won't respond. I told him I don't want to get in the middle of this, but if you ask me, I think he's had a change of heart--"

"Oh, bullshit!" she exploded, jumping to her feet again like she was on a spring. Pacing back and forth like a caged animal, she shouted in the hapless lawyer's ear. "It's _guilt_ , that's what it is! Pure and simple guilt! That, and he's probably worried I'll try to take him to the cleaners on grounds of adultery."

Sawyer's patient sigh did nothing to improve her temper, but she cut off her rant, preparing to listen to him again. "Isabel, it's none of my business, but we've known each other for years, and if you don't mind my saying so, I think you're acting too impulsively on this. I said in the beginning that you needed to take time--"

"I _know_ what you said," she replied coldly. "And _you_ know what _I_ said. Send the papers again--a hundred times if you have to."

With that, she slammed the phone back into its cradle, releasing a short, violent breath as she did, but it didn't lessen any of the agitation roiling inside her chest. 

What kind of game was he playing? she wondered. It had been _his_ idea, so why was he balking now?

She had taken maybe two steps from the phone when it rang again, and--without thinking--she grabbed it and barked, "What _now_ , Sawyer?"

There was a prolonged silence on the other end of the line, and suddenly, she was gripped by the cold realization that it might not be Sawyer calling back. She might have just answered _his_ latest attempt to contact her.

"Whoa--somebody needs a valium!" Micky's cheerful voice exclaimed, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"Hi, Mick," she replied much more calmly, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "Sorry--I thought you were my lawyer."

"Nope, just me. So how's going? Have you talked to Mike yet?" he asked, a deliberately casual edge to his voice that told her he already knew the answer.

"No," she snapped. "And I'm not _going_ to. I've already said everything he's ever going to hear from me in _this_ lifetime."

"Ouch..."

She could picture Micky giving an exaggerated wince, but it didn't lessen her resolve in the least.

"Micky, if you only called to badger me--" she began wearily, not feeling up to a confrontation at the moment.

"No, no!" he interrupted hastily. "That's not why I called at all."

"Then what is it?" She sank into her chair again, tucking her feet up under her. Fatigue of both body and spirit swept over her, and she wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed again and ignore the world for a while.

"I want you to have dinner with me Friday night," he replied promptly.

Isabel raised one eyebrow, intrigued despite herself. "Dinner?" she echoed. "You and me? Mr. Dolenz, are you asking me out?" She couldn't resist teasing him, knowing that his feelings for her had been and always would be strictly those of a--frequently bratty--brother.

"Yes, I am," he replied firmly. "It'll be the first time I've gone out with anyone since Mags, and I want to ease into this slowly."

She fell silent then, feeling a stab of guilt. What right did she have to whine and cry about her own problems when there were others who were suffering just as much as she in different ways? It had been well over a year since his wife's death, but Micky had yet to plunge into the social scene again. Any offers to fix him up were politely but firmly refused, and he--like Peter after divorce #2--had lived a solitary existence, focusing exclusively on his work.

Of course, he was lucky in a way, she thought bitterly. He lost his wife, but to death, not to someone else. She really wasn't sure which was worse...

"Sure," she replied softly. "I'll be happy to have dinner with you." She paused, then added, "It'll be my first time out too."

"I know," he said. "That's why I think we oughta try this together. So Friday night, seven o'clock sharp. Okay?"

"Okay," she agreed, and for the first time in months, she found herself anticipating something again. "Oh--what should I wear?"

She could hear the mischievous grin in his voice as he answered, "Something that'll make every man in the room wish he was me."

"I don't think I'm capable of that anymore," she replied, completely serious. When she looked in the mirror these days, all she saw was an aging woman with lines and wrinkles and grey hair--no wonder he'd wandered into a younger woman's arms! How could any man find her attractive now?

Micky made a rude noise in her ear. "Sure you can--and don't try to act all frumpy on me, because if you're not looking hot enough to fry eggs, I'm sending you right back inside to change," he warned sternly.

"Oh, _great_ ," she mock-grumbled, "no pressure."

~*~*~ 

"Well?"

Isabel held out her arms perpendicular to her sides and rotated in a slow circle, presenting herself for Micky's inspection. She had chosen a black gown with a bodice that molded itself to her still-slender waist and a heart-shaped neckline that revealed just a hint of cleavage; the sleeves were long and tight, and the skirt fell in graceful folds to her feet. Her silver hair was swept up, a few tendrils loose around her neck, and she wore little jewelry, only diamond earrings--and her wedding band, Micky noted, wondering if she had ever taken it off and guessing the answer was no. His thumb caressed the back of the ring he hadn't taken off his own left hand yet as he realized just how much that little fact revealed about her true feelings.

Then he brought himself back to the present and leaned back a little, pressing one finger to his chin as he squinted at her, pretending to criticize every detail.

"Hhm." He made little disapproving noises until she rolled her eyes and blew a raspberry at him.

"Just tell me if I have to go change," she griped. "But I'm warning you--I already spent two hours trying to put _this_ together, so if you make me go back, we might not ever leave the house."

Micky laughed, extending both arms to her, waving his hands to indicate he wanted a hug. She smiled in return and hurried into his embrace.

"You look great, Izzy," he assured her, squeezing her tight before releasing her to arms'-length and giving her a fond smile. "We're gonna make this a night to remember."

"I'll hold you to that," she replied, wagging her finger at him.

Micky smiled enigmatically. "I don't think it'll be a problem..."

With that, he ushered her out of the house and into his car, whisking her away without telling her where they were going for dinner; if she knew, she'd either kill him or refuse to go or both. 

As it was, as soon as she realized where he was headed, she felt all the blood drain from her face, and she clutched Micky's arm tight.

"You're not taking me _there_ ," she whispered, her eyes huge as she stared at him, naked fear etched in every line of her face. "Micky, how _could_ you?"

"It's called facing the demons, my dear, and it's something we both need to do," he answered, his tone infinitely gentle. "Yours is tonight. You can get even with me some other time."

Isabel shrank in her seat, staring sightlessly out the front window as Micky wheeled in front of the one restaurant in LA she'd vowed she'd never step foot into again. It held far too many memories. They had all gone there to celebrate the night that their first album hit the number one spot on the charts, and they'd loved it so much, it had become a regular gathering place when any or all of them were in town. Davy had held his first engagement party there; Peter had proposed to his second wife there; she had told Mike that she was pregnant with Rob there--

And now she was supposed to walk through the door and _not_ see countless ghosts rising up in front of her? How could Micky be so cruel...?

She moved with all the animation of a zombie as he helped her from the car and, grasping her elbow firmly, steered her inside. She straightened her spine, forcing the lid shut on her emotions and clamping it down tight; she would _not_ allow this place to affect her. It was just a building, she reminded herself firmly. It had no power to harm her unless she let it.

"You okay?" Micky asked softly as the maitre'd led them to their table.

She nodded without looking at him, her lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure, and his rich laughter rang out, attracting the notice of nearby patrons.

"Uh-oh," he teased. "I've pissed off Lady Nesmith." 

"Shut up."

It took several minutes for her to compose herself enough to be able to look up at Micky, to look around the room without feeling a suffocating constriction in her throat. Instead, she focused on the tablecloth, the silverware, her wine glass--anything to keep from seeing the past all around her.

When she finally felt secure enough to glance tentatively around, her heartbeat quickened a little, but her face remained calm and impassive as she turned cool eyes on the corner booth where they'd all crammed in, jostling and shoving, giddy with delight over new-found fame and success. The archway leading to the private room where their birthday/anniversary/engagement parties were held. The table for two by the hearth...

"It's not so bad, is it?" Micky asked, his expressive face cast in lines of sympathy and compassion.

"No..." she replied slowly, surprised to realize how much she meant it. "No, it's not so bad at all..."

~*~*~ 

"I've got one more surprise for you," Micky announced as he dropped into the driver's seat of his car once more.

Isabel slanted a dubious look at him. "Not anything like the first one, I hope. Going back there wasn't as bad as I thought, but really, Mick--my nerves are about shot for one evening."

"Not to worry," he replied, a hint of smugness in his voice as he pulled onto the street again. "I think you're gonna _like_ this one."

This time, she didn't recognize their destination well in advance; she was familiar with the area he was headed toward, but she couldn't begin to guess what the attraction was. As far as she knew, there was nothing there but a few art houses, museums, and theaters--unless he was giving her a preview of his next exhibit, she had no idea what he planned to do there.

He stopped in front of a small theater that from the outside appeared to be abandoned. It was too late for a play to be just starting--at that point, it should have been well into the second act--and even if there _were_ a performance going on, where were the people? The marquis out front was illuminated, but there was no advertisement--no indication of what was going on inside.

"What--?"

But Micky raised a finger to his lips, his expression conspiratorial as he opened the door, jumped out and ran around the back of the car to open her door for her. She slid out, scanning the area for any other signs of life, but there was nothing. As far as she could tell, she and Micky were the only people around.

He slammed the door shut and activated the alarm, the resultant beep seeming to echo down the empty street. Grasping her elbow again, he hustled her to the main entrance of the theater, groped in his pocket, and pulled out a ring of keys which he rattled enticingly in front of her before experimenting to see which one opened the door.

Once they were inside, she had to stop and wait for her eyes to adjust to the gloom; the lobby was dimly lit and empty, seemingly devoid of life. There were no ticket-takers, no patrons milling about, no lines at the bathrooms--none of the usual activity.

"Micky--" she began, a clear note of warning in her voice, but he shushed her impatiently.

"Just wait a minute," he ordered, steering her into the auditorium.

He led her all the way down the aisle, past seemingly endless rows of empty seats until they reached the front row; once there, he guided her to a spot in the middle and gave her a little push on the shoulder. Obediantly, she sat down, crossing her legs at the knee and settling back in the plush red velvet seat. She had no idea what was about to happen, but she appeared to have no choice in the matter. She might as well relax and be patient.

To her surprise, Micky didn't sit down next to her as she expected; instead, he hustled away, appearing to head backstage rather than back towards the lobby. A glance at the stage revealed nothing; it was pitch-black, and although the curtain was up, she couldn't tell if there were even any props or scenery. She frowned, puzzled, wondering what on earth could possibly be going on--

And then the music started.

A single guitar. Simple chords. 

Then a blazing spotlight shone down on center stage--and there was Davy, wearing a microphone headset, singing the opening words to his own song: "It's Not Too Late."

"If I had a penny for every time that I thought about you, I would be a millionaire--"

He was looking right at her, and she sucked in her breath, holding it as her heart began pounding hard enough to burst through the walls of her chest. 

Another spotlight--and there was Micky behind his drumkit, also wearing a headset and grinning unrepentantly at her as he chimed in with the harmony.

"The summer sun and the winter snow, the autumn leaves and the spring rains know just how much I need your love--"

She raised a trembling hand to her mouth, realization dawning, and her head grew buzzy from shock; she'd never fainted before in her life, but she felt she was the closest she had ever been at that moment.

"Your name would be my dying prayer--"

The spotlights disappeared as all the stage lights went up, revealing all four of them--Peter stood behind his keyboards, peering at her over the top of his glasses, a pleased smile making his dimples wink at her.

And Mike. Whose idea this all was. She would lay a bet on it. It had been a running joke in their relationship that if she wanted to know how he felt, she had to listen to his lyrics because the truth would rarely come out of his mouth. And despite the fact that this was _Davy's_ song, it was, she realized, singularly appropriate for their situation.

"It's not too late--"

And that was _his_ voice loud and clear above the rest. He looked straight at her as he sang, and she felt as if something deep inside her was being stretched to the breaking point, and if it snapped, she had no idea _what_ would happen...

"I would work 'til the day was done, just to prove my love was true--"

Davy made his way down a set of steps leading from the stage, holding out his hand to her; she somehow managed to stand on legs that felt rubbery, likely to collapse beneath her at any moment, but she clasped his hand, momentarily strengthened by his firm, warm grip, and she followed him back up on-stage. He turned her to face them, keeping one arm around her shoulders.

"I would never again leave or be untrue--"

She was familiar enough with the song to catch the difference, and she felt the blood rush from her head, making her dizzy; she felt herself wavering and, closing her eyes briefly, pressed her fingers to her right temple, trying to clear the static that threatened to engulf her.

If she had any doubts about his intentions with this little set-up, she could harbor them no longer...

"Our love will last until the end of time--"

Davy released her as they blended their voices in the almost Catholic mass-like harmonies, moving to stand next to Mike and Peter who were together behind the keyboards. Isabel clasped her hands and pressed them against her lips, aware of only the music and its message...

Micky let loose with his final vocal acrobatics, the song ended, and almost as one, they turned to face her, watching expectantly to see what her reaction would be--but they didn't expect anything like what happened next.

She stared at Mike, her eyes wide and blank as if she were looking at him but not seeing him; her mouth opened, but no sound came out, and then she stumbled backwards, her knees appearing to give out beneath her.

"Whoa!" Davy leapt forward, catching her around the waist with his right arm and capturing her left hand in his to give additional support. "Steady, love--"

She sagged heavily against him as if she were no longer capable of supporting her own weight, her chest heaving, a odd wet hitching noise bubbling up from her throat. 

Peter skirted the keyboards, his features drawn taut with alarm, and added his support on her right side as she sank to the floor; Micky jumped up from behind his drumkit, sprinting across the stage to join the huddled group from behind. Mike, however, stood frozen, uncertain what to do--or if he should even try to do anything given the circumstances. The other three had been loyal to her, after all, which was hardly a claim he could make.

"Damn you," she whispered, her head bowed, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. "Damn you!" She threw her head up and roared with such power and force that they could see veins standing out on her neck. "I _hate_ you!" she screamed at Mike, tears of fury springing into her eyes as her gaze bore relentlessly into his. "How could you _do_ this to me? Thirty years of love and support, and you throw my trust back in my face--it's not fair and I hate you for it!"

She collapsed completely then, a limp, shaking heap in their arms; Davy and Micky cast sympathetic glances at Mike before turning their attention to Isabel, murmuring soothing words, trying to comfort her as best they could. Peter looked up, catching and holding his friend's gaze as he gently stroked Isabel's back.

"This--isn't the reaction I was hoping for," Mike said wryly, still making no move towards his wife.

"It's okay," Peter replied, his tone reassuring, and Mike gaped at him incredulously.

"She's yellin' that she hates me, and you say it's _okay_?" 

"All this garbage has been bottled up inside her ever since you left," Peter explained patiently. "This is the first time she's allowed herself to let it out. This is good," he insisted. "She's finally healing."

He glanced down at Isabel, his expression revealing some inner conflict, then he looked back up at Mike and waved for him to join them.

"Come over here," he reinforced the invitation aloud, but Mike took a step back, shaking his head.

"I don't know if that's a good idea--"

"This is _your_ fault," Peter retorted acidly, his usually placid features turning implacable. " _You_ need to help fix it."

Mike hesitated a moment longer, then he reluctantly walked over to the little group and knelt down on one knee, his expression guarded; after her outburst, he had no idea what his reception would be now, and he refused to take anything for granted. Slowly, he reached out and touched her shoulder, but it was the formal, distant touch of a stranger, not of a beloved husband and lover.

"Isabel--?" His voice was soft and hesitant, betraying the nervousness he felt despite the deliberately impassive mask he wore.

With the speed of a striking cobra, Isabel uncurled herself from her friends' embrace and rounded on him, pummeling his chest with her fists.

"How _could_ you?" she demanded, her tear-streaked face twisted with bitter accusation. "You broke your promise to me, you liar!"

He didn't resist or try to stop her attack, letting her vent her anger on him; there was little strength behind her blows as if the tears had sapped her energy, and they didn't hurt him physically. But every time she struck him, he felt it like a stab to his heart, and he began to fear that he'd waited too late, that there was no longer a chance she might forgive him.

"I know--" he ventured cautiously. "I'm sorry--"

"I don't care!" she exclaimed passionately. "I hate you--h-hate you!"

But despite her vitriolic words, she stopped lashing out and clung to him, tightly curling her fingers in his shirt as if to make sure he wouldn't be able to leave. Mike remained absolutely still, afraid to move, not knowing what he could possibly set off next; he glanced up at the others, and Peter gave him a disgusted look, then mimed an embrace, his unspoken message clear: "Put your arms around her, you idiot." Micky and Davy both nodded vehemently, and he felt a tiny measure of comfort; if they weren't indicating he should escape before blood was shed, then maybe there was hope after all...

He slipped one arm around her shoulders and the other lower around her back, and it occurred to him how many times he had performed that one simple act in his lifetime and for how many different reasons. And how comforting and familiar it felt now. It might have been his imagination, but he thought she relaxed fractionally; her slender body still shook with sobs, but at least she was no longer hitting him or screaming at him.

The hardwood floor of the stage was beginning to feel like it was sending red-hot knives into his knee, and he slowly eased both himself and her into a more comfortable position, sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him and pulling her unresisting form into the V. She gave a shuddery little sigh, and it seemed to him that her weeping had stopped, or at least abated a bit. Her fingers released their deathgrip on his shirt, and to his amazement, she wrapped her arms around him, squeezing slightly.

"Does this mean you're through beatin' up on me?" he asked softly, not quite loud enough for the others to hear.

She nodded but didn't speak, and he hugged her tight for a moment, awash with relief that the worst was over. After a moment, she pulled away from him and sat up straight, covering her face with her hands as she struggled to regain her composure. With one last deep sigh, she swiped the last tears from her eyes and turned her head to look at him, her face slack and expressionless.

"What is it?" she asked wearily, no inflection or emotion in her voice. "What's all this?" She gestured listlessly at the stage. "What do you want from me?"

"A second chance," he replied, his breath catching as he waited for her response.

She stared at him, a steady, level gaze that gave away nothing; even her eyes were guarded, and he couldn't begin to read her.

"Why should I?" she responded at last. "My trust in you is _gone_ , Mike. Totally gone. You betrayed me once; how am I supposed to know you won't do it again?"

"Because now I know exactly what I stand to lose!" he retorted fiercely. Now that he had finally figured out what he wanted, he was prepared to fight to the bitter end for it--even if his only adversary were Isabel herself. "I was already callin' myself the biggest fool in the world when Peter told me what happened between the two of you--"

"Peter!" She rounded on him sharply. "You _told_ him about that?"

"I thought a good dose of his own medicine might be enough to make him come crawling back--and it worked." Peter shrugged and gave them a one-sided smile. "Jealousy is a great motivator."

"Oh, my God..." Isabel covered her eyes with one hand and shook her head.

"What happened?" Davy whispered to Micky, who waved him silent and hissed, "Later!"

"You're damn right it was a great motivator!" Mike exclaimed. "He's damn lucky he got away so quick--"

"I made sure I had a ten foot head start before I told him," Peter said with a mischievous smile.

"And you needed it, too."

"Yeah--" Peter's smile turned into an outright grin. "You run pretty fast for an old guy."

"Shut up."

"Stop it, both of you!" Isabel demanded, holding up both hands palm out. "Just say what you have to say and get it over with."

Mike ran one hand over his short-cropped hair, unsure where to start. He watched Isabel as she shifted to rest her weight on one hip and tucked her legs under her, studiously avoiding eye contact with him. Tendrils of silver hair had come loose from her chignon and wafted across her cheeks, which were still streaked with tear-tracks. But even though she was no longer looking directly at him, her eyes were still guarded, and he knew they would most likely stay that way; her shields were notoriously thick and strong, and she had no doubt reinforced them--against him. 

"Well, it's like I said," he began hesitantly. "I already regretted--everything when Peter told me what happened, and that settled it for me. The thought of you with another man--" he trailed off, sickening at the very idea. Isabel was _his_ ; he had been her first and only lover, and he wanted it to stay that way.

"That's a bit of a double-standard, isn't it? All things considered?" she pointed out dryly.

"Yes, it is," he admitted. "I'm just tellin' you how I feel. I don't claim it makes _sense_."

She shrugged and looked away. "Whatever."

He stared at her for a moment, a mixture of anger and frustration rising within him. "Are you actually goin' to listen to me, or am I just wastin' my time?" he asked, struggling to remain calm in the face of her indifference.

He preferred the hitting and screaming to this...

After what felt like an eternity, she finally raised her eyes to meet his again, and he could see the cool distance in them--a sign he recognized immediately as meaning she was masking deep emotion, which perversely enough gave him some hope that his cause wasn't entirely lost.

"I'm listening," she told him quietly.

He nodded, then continued. The theater, the stage, the other three men clustered around them--all faded away as he focused on Isabel, channeling all his energy and persuasive powers into convincing her to give him another chance. 

"I think this has been goin' on ever since I turned fifty," he began slowly. "It just crept up on me--I'm gettin' old--"

"You're only fifty-two," ** she reminded gently. "That's hardly old these days."

"Yeah, well, I _feel_ older than that sometimes," he admitted with chagrin. "And like a fool, I fell into the same trap almost every other man in the world falls into. I forgot what was important to me; I forgot everything. I just wanted--to feel young again--if only for a little while."

"And so you went out and started sleeping with younger women." 

" _One woman_ ," he insisted. "And it was the most dumbass thing I've ever done in my life. These past few months have taught me just how special we are together--I've had it so good for so long, I forgot that not everybody's relationship is like ours. But bein' without you, Isa--it's like part of me isn't there anymore, like someone cut off my hand."

She squeezed her eyes shut tight and hastily averted her face, covering her mouth with one hand as if she were trying to repress another outburst of emotion. Her shoulders began to shake again slightly, and he had to resist the urge to pull her into his arms again--he wasn't certain he'd earned the right to initiate such a move yet.

"I love you, Mary-bel. I need you," he continued softly. "I will _never_ take you or our relationship for granted again. Maybe I don't deserve a second chance, but I want one--desperately."

"I'm scared," she admitted, her voice tremulous. "I'm so scared--"

"I know, but all I can do is promise you that now I know just how precious what we have together is. Give me the chance to earn your trust again," he urged. "Maybe things will never be the same between us again, but it can be just as good--maybe even better-- now that we-- _I_ \--have had the complacency knocked out of us."

She finally looked at him again, tears shimmering on her lashes, threatening to fall. One did--and he took a chance, reaching out to brush it gently away with his thumb. 

A eternity stretched out between them as they stared into each others' eyes, speaking wordless volumes. At last, Isabel lowered her gaze to her lap. 

"I've tried to stop feeling anything for you," she said in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper. "I didn't even want to hate you because that would mean that I loved you as well, but I couldn't shut my feelings off no matter how hard I tried. And the whole time we've been apart, I've never known which hurt worse: knowing you cheated on me or having to live without you."

He nodded, his expression grave, but he didn't speak.

"So." She kept her gaze focused downward, twisting her slender fingers together as she braced herself for her next words. 

The past few months had been a living nightmare for her; she'd never experienced as much emotional suffering before in her life, and all at the hands of the man she had once loved and trusted above all others. Now, she knew she loved him still, but she no longer trusted him, and she wasn't certain she would ever be able to again. And the love she felt was different as well, tainted by his betrayal. 

To top it all off, she couldn't even _think_ about sharing a bed with him any time soon; she already knew it would take a while for the memories of what she'd seen in that hotel bedroom to fade, and while they were so strong, she didn't want him to touch her. 

But despite all these obstacles, deep down, she wanted to give him the chance he asked for; perhaps things would ultimately fall apart anyway, forever ruined by his indiscretion, but if she didn't at least try to put their marriage back together again, she would always wonder what might have been.

But the first step was to tell him, and that was a major hurdle in itself; her pride, her self-esteem--all had been shattered, and opening herself up to him again was an emotional risk she feared taking. 

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly, glancing at him through her lowered lashes; on the surface, his expression was impassive, but she knew all the subtle signs of nervousness well enough to realize that he was probably as torn up on the inside as she was--a comforting thought, and one that made her task a little easier.

"All right," she said softly. "We can give it a try."

"You're sure--?" he asked cautiously, not wanting to celebrate too soon.

"No," she replied with total candor. "I don't know if we'll actually survive this. I'm not completely sure I _want_ to at this point, but I'll regret it if I don't make the attempt."

Behind them, a collective sigh was exhaled from three sets of lungs, and she glanced over her shoulder to see their audience beaming at them, obviously delighted. 

She didn't smile back, holding one hand out to Peter instead in a silent request; he grasped her arm in a firm, solid grip and helped her up. Behind her, Mike scrambled to his feet unaided, and she turned to him, her face a solemn mask.

"Are you ready to go home?" she asked, the words sounding odd to her ears after such a long separation. 

"Very," he answered quietly. 

Peter reached out and caught Mike's hand, then placed Isabel's in it, closing Mike's fingers around hers. Isabel had to resist the urge to tug her hand free; she wasn't ready for that yet, but she didn't want to hurt Peter's feelings, so she pretended the simple--but symbolic--gesture didn't bother her. One glance into Mike's eyes, however, assured her that _he_ knew, and she flushed, looking away. She'd forgotten how well he understood her. 

The moment the others turned to leave, he dropped her hand and gestured for her to precede him off the stage; gathering around her what little remained of her tattered decorum after such a traumatic scene, she followed Micky, Davy and Peter while Mike remained two or three paces behind her. She didn't have to see him to know he was watching her--she could feel his gaze on her--and she felt as if her every expression, every movement was being weighed and analyzed, which knowing him it probably was.

The ride back to her beach house was a silent one; Mike drove, and Isabel stared out the side window, lost in thought, fretting about how she would handle trying to fit her life with his again given the way she now felt. Would he expect to share her bedroom again? Would he act as if nothing had happened? Try to pick up where they had left off? 

So many unanswered questions...

Once they arrived, she unlocked the front door and stepped inside, turning to look a question at him when she realized he hadn't followed her into the entrance hall. Instead, he stood poised on the threshold, watching her with that serious, intense look she knew so well.

"All right, Isa," he said at last. "Show's over. The audience has gone home. So now tell me the truth. What do you really want?"

"To change the past so that this whole damn mess never happened," she retorted bitterly. 

He closed his eyes briefly, then shrugged and started backing away, certain there was no chance she could forgive and move on.

"Wait!" she called, throwing up one hand to stop his retreat. "Please--stay. Even if we don't make it, I want to try."

And she surprised herself with how much she meant it. Loving him again would be one of the biggest leaps of faith she had ever made, and it would consist of numerous smaller risks--one of which she was facing now. She swallowed hard, pushing aside the fear that threatened to send her fleeing to the sanctity of her bedroom--without him--and slowly raised her arms, holding them out to him in an immistakable welcome.

For a moment, he stood frozen, and she was terrified he was going to reject her again--and then scarcely before she realized he'd moved, she found herself caught up in a crushing embrace, literally swept off her feet in the process. Tears stung her eyes as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and clung to him awkwardly. 

"We'll make it work," he murmured, his voice ragged with emotion. "I'll do anything--"

"I know," she whispered. "I know you will."

And still he held her as if he never wanted to let her go again, heedless of the open front door, and there they remained as long minutes passed, trying to reestablish a tenuous link that might someday grow into a bond like the one they had once shared, that might replace the bond which had been broken almost beyond repair.


End file.
